


Volume I

by marvels_agents100



Series: the thing about love [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25145929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvels_agents100/pseuds/marvels_agents100
Summary: sure, it could hurt you, baby, but give a little try
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Reader
Series: the thing about love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821574
Comments: 12
Kudos: 67





	Volume I

**Author's Note:**

> potential warnings: violence, blood, aaron is sad and traumatized, reader is shot,,,, the usual

You knew he wasn’t yours to have. His heart had left him long ago, locked in a box in the back corner of his closet, leaving behind a dark void between the cobwebbed bars of his ribs, his burdened breaths a soft echo inside his chest. The only love, the only care he felt he was really capable of was the love he held for Jack. And yet, he laid in bed every night and wished the silk of his sheets would cover him completely, swallowing him into wherever he went when he fell asleep, locking the door behind him and losing the key. The guilt alone was eating him alive- how dare he feel exhausted for loving his son?- and it never left his mind, no matter how focused he was on a case. The lack of compartmentalization was something that would take time to get used to.

You saw it on his face, every time the glass door to the BAU swung open with the push of a heavy arm, every time the lines under his eyes became darker and deeper, every time he sighed like the sorrow and darkness that plagued his mind had leaned upon his shoulders once more. It killed you to see the weight he carried every day; you couldn’t begin to imagine how he felt. What completely broke the beat within your chest was how much you wished you could help, yet you knew he would never let you.

That was, until he did.

You had joined the BAU after Elle left, also specializing in sex crimes. The team is your family, your life, and everything in between. You watched them rise and fall, love and lose, laugh and cry. And every time one of you needed help, the others were there to support each other. It was a beautiful, wonderful thing, the BAU. And that beautiful, wonderful thing also included a certain Aaron Hotchner. Most of the team were too intimidated to ever really try prying into Hotch’s psyche, especially since Hailey died. However, one particular day, you couldn’t stop yourself.

Your knuckles tapped gently on the door to his office, your ear close to the wood, listening for a response. The blinds had been drawn the entire day, and hours had passed since the rest of the team had departed. If you didn’t know better, you would worry if Aaron was even alive in his office.

“Come in,” his voice rumbled, the words slipping past his lips with a small sigh.

You opened the door cautiously, first looking inside, then fully stepping in. It shut behind you with a soft click, Aaron’s eyes never looking up from the file before him. His left hand lazily dragged out a signature along the bottom of the page. Your arms tightened around the small stack of files you held in your arms- a compilation of yours, Spencer’s, and Emily’s.

You cleared your throat softly, “Hotch,” you greeted, a polite smile on your lips as his gaze finally flickered up to you, “this is all the work from Spence, Emily, and I on the Atlanta case.” 

“You can leave it on the table there,” he gestured towards a small end table with his pen, before returning to his writing, “thank you.”

You nodded, setting the stack of papers down softly, stealing a glance at him before turning and making your way back to the door. Your hand hesitated as it reached for the knob, your heart begging you to turn around and talk to him, comfort him, absolutely anything to just help him.

He noticed your hesitation, your frozen stance by the door catching his attention. He sat up fully, his pen dropping on the desk as his brows knitted together.

“Is there something else, (Y/L/N)?”

Your outstretched and hovering hand slowly closed to a fist, your eyes shutting as you realized there was no way to play this off without him being suspicious. You turned to him, meeting his gaze and trying to keep from caving under his intense stare.

“Actually,” your hands ran down your pant legs, and you found yourself finding a seat across from him, “there… there is.”

He leaned forward on the desk, his expression still studying you, but his voice softening as he recognized how nervous you were, “What’s going on?”

“Sir,” you began, having trouble meeting his eyes, “I don’t want to overstep, and I know you’re a private person, but you’ve been in this office all day with the blinds shut and the door closed and- well, I’m sure I speak for the whole team right now- but we’re worried that you’re not okay, and if you wanted to talk- not that you’d need to, I’m sure you can work through a lot on your own, being knowledgeable in psychology and all-“

“(Y/N).” He cut off your rambling, your eyes finally snapping to his when he said your name. He paused for a beat before continuing, “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

You sighed, trying to not be discouraged by his complete avoidance of your question.

“What’s going on, Hotch?” You asked softly. He looked down at his hands, sighing deeply.

“It’s nothing you have to worry about,” he shook his head slightly as he spoke.

“But I do. And I will. I worry, you know that.” You gave him a small smile when his gaze lifted back to you. He returned it for only a moment before it dropped away from his lips.

“It’s just…” he took another breath, “it would’ve… it would’ve been her birthday today.”

As his voice croaked out those words, you felt the beating of your heart stop. The physical ache made you drop your head for a moment, just to catch your breath.

“I’m so sorry, I-“

“It’s okay.” He interrupted you again, “I know it’s been a while now, and I’ve been able to make peace, for the most part. But, every time today comes around, or Christmas, Thanksgiving- hell, whenever any holiday comes around- he always… Jack always-“

He couldn’t finish his sentence, his hand coming to rest against the bridge of his nose, catching the tears that threatened to spill over. Your head tilted as you watched him, tears of your own beginning to gloss your eyes.

“He asks about her, doesn’t he?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

Aaron sniffled, letting a deep breath straighten his back again as he tried to compose himself.

He nodded, “Yeah, he does,” he scoffed and shook his head, “I never know what to say.” The chuckle that fell from his lips was humorless, just a sad acknowledgment of how pathetic he felt.

“God, Aaron, who would?” Your once hesitant hand reached forward and rested upon his, “You are living in a situation with Jack that no one could have prepared you for, one that no one will ever have the answers for.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” He joked, a single laugh escaping as he used his free hand to wipe away a tear. You let out a watery chuckle, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Yes, because despite the fact that there isn’t a single parenting manual on raising a kid like Jack, everything that you have figured out on your own has made him into the wonderful little boy he is.” You smiled at him, “You are an amazing father. The world deserves more dads that are like you.”

He gave your hand a squeeze, a real, genuine smile gracing his lips. A moment passed before he spoke again.

“Thank you, (Y/N), I appreciate you checking in on me.”

“We were all worried, sir.” You replied, “And we all know you don’t really talk about the dark, stormy thoughts that bounce around that head of yours,” he chuckled at that, “but, I felt like you needed to know: we’re always here. I’m always here. If you want to talk, if you want me to talk and distract your thoughts, if you just need the presence of someone in the room- no matter what it is- I’m here.”

He nodded once, eyes never leaving yours, “Thank you.” His voice was much quieter now.

You gave his hand a pat and stood, smoothing down your pants with your palms.

“Anytime.”

He stood as well, circling his desk to open the door to the office. You were close behind, stopping short when the door didn’t open. Aaron’s hand was stagnant on the knob, his eyes locked on yours.

“What is it?” You asked, a confused look on your face.

“I-“ he paused, then shook his head and opened the door, “have a good night, (Y/N).”

You nodded politely, choosing to ignore his behavior, knowing he had already made himself vulnerable enough for the night.

“You too, sir.”

***

“(Y/N), Spence, we have a case.” JJ breezed by the two of you, heading for the conference room. You were hovering over Spencer’s shoulder, his hand scribbling on the beaten pages of a legal pad. It was his idea, attempting to solve the Zodiac’s cypher. He could pick out patterns with a single glance, and you were able to add the small, less logical and structured details that his analytical mind always seemed to miss.

Needless to say, neither of you had figured anything out. It was simply a way to pass down time.

Upon entering the conference room, Spencer close behind, you found your seat between Emily and Derek. Penelope began pulling images onto the screen, her brightly colored fingernails tapping softly on her tablet. You leaned back in your chair, toes rocking it ever so lightly back and forth, back and forth. Hotch was the last to arrive only seconds later, his presence alone notifying you of his arrival. He had a way of making himself known before speaking a single word.

“Garcia,” he urged, signaling for her to begin.

“Alright,” she began, the unmistakable sunshine leaking through her words, “giddy up, cow boys and girls, you’re headed to Houston!”

You had to hold back your giggle- it sounded like she was pitching a dream vacation.

“Unfortunately, it’s not to attend the rodeo, but to find who killed these three men in the past month.” Three pictures flashed onto the screen, the bodies of three victims displaying before the BAU. “The bodies of Tyee, Kele, and Dakota were found three weeks, two weeks, and almost one week ago.”

“Why are we just now being called in?” You asked.

Garcia sighed, almost sadly, “Police claim to have not seen a connection, but others living on the reservation say that police didn’t try to.”

A pause fell over the room, the only movement being Derek’s head shaking slightly in disappointment.

“Cause of death?” Hotch asked, breaking the small silence.

"They were all shot once in the chest, then- and this is an image that will never leave my mind- were scalped. If that wasn’t enough gross and icky for you, they were all missing their left thumb.”

“Tyee Begaye, Kele Etcitty, Dakota Nez. All mid 30’s, all Native American, all living in the Alabama-Coushatta reservation. The similarity between them all makes me think they could be surrogates,” Morgan stated, his fingers carding through the file before him.

“What are they wearing?” Emily asked, referring to the burlap and tan clothing that, frankly, looked like a cheap and offensive Halloween costume.

“That, my lovely Emily, would be an attempt at traditional Native clothing.” Garcia replied, “Strong emphasis on attempt.”

“The scalping indicates that the Unsub is probably white, since the textbooks teach that it was purely a Native ritual. In reality, it was a white governor who offered rewards for ‘Indian scalps’.” Your fingers made air quotes around your words, “Maybe we have a white supremacist who is trying to seek some twisted form of revenge.”

“The missing thumb interests me,” Rossi thinks out loud, “is there a ritual or tradition that involves the thumb?”

“Not necessarily,” Spencer spoke, “however, the now disbanded Atakapa tribe lived along the Gulf of Mexico, until an epidemic nearly killed the entirety of the tribe in the late 18th century. They believed in life after death, and anyone who died by a snakebite, or whose corpse was eaten by another human, would be denied that afterlife.” 

“Why would our Unsub be displaying rituals from a tribe that doesn’t exist?” JJ questioned.

“That’s a question we can answer on the plane,” Hotch stood from his chair, “if our Unsub sticks to his timeline, we have two days to find him before he kills again. Wheels up in 30.”

***

Discussion on the plane wasn’t leading very far, mostly because of the lack of information the team had on the murders. It was abundantly clear that local authorities, or at least the particular officers that had investigated the murders, didn’t take much interest in actually finding who had commit them. It was incredibly frustrating, knowing that you and your team could be miles closer to finding a serial killer if prejudice didn’t stand in the way of justice.

You pushed those thoughts away, knowing that thinking too hard about it would just infuriate you. There wasn’t time to be angry, you had to focus.

“Why the outfits?” Rossi asked, “These men are clearly Native American, why feel the need to dress them in stereotypical clothing?”

“It has to be a part of the fantasy,” JJ answers, “they look like they’re characters from a western.”

“What time period was traditional clothing like this worn?” Emily inquired, her eyes never leaving the file in front of her.

“When forced assimilation of the 19th and 20th centuries began, traditional clothing stopped being made in the name of appeasing the powers that be,” Spencer began, fingers wiggling with his words, “Most traditional, Native American fashion designers began making clothing only for certain celebrations and rituals, exclusively for personal use. It wasn’t until 1934 that the passage of the Indian Reorganization Act began to encourage the production of traditional clothing once more. The patterns and weaving we see in modern fashion today all began in 1942, when Native American fashion was featured in a high profile fashion show, and instead of being discouraged, was appreciated. Most designers use their Native roots to assimilate traditional textile with modern trends in order to reach a larger audience.”

“So clothing like this isn’t mass produced?” Morgan asked.

“Unless it’s close to October 31st, no,” Spencer answered.

“It’s August, there’s no way he purchased these almost a year ago, he wouldn’t have been able to control his urges for that long.” Emily shook her head, completely baffled.

“Maybe he’s making them?” You offered, doubt in your voice, “I mean, they don’t exactly look well made.”

“He could be ordering them online,” Hotch countered.

“Alright, alright,” JJ interrupted, “I think the significance lies in what the costumes are supposed to mean. He’s calling back to before the 19th century. What fantasy is exclusive to that time frame and involves Native Americans?”

“If we had more information on the killing itself, I feel like a lot of these questions would be answered,” Dave’s voice was laced with frustration. 

“I agree,” Hotch began, “Prentiss, Morgan, I want you to talk to the ME, try to find absolutely anything that wasn’t reported. David, (Y/L/N), go to the newest scene and see if you can add to the reports as well. Reid, JJ, and I will go set up at the station, start interviewing families and the officers that were on the original scenes. We need to get all the information they neglected to share,” Hotch directed, approving nods coming from the rest of the team.

“And if they try to stop us?” Morgan asked, Hotch giving him a confused look.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Look, when I was with the Chicago PD, I saw this kind of prejudice within my own precinct. Bad cops won’t stop being bad cops just because we’re in their jurisdiction.”

Hotch paused a moment before speaking.

“Our job is to build a profile and catch whoever is doing this,” he began, “and we are going to do that, even if a bad cop- or anyone, for that matter- tries to get in our way. We’ve dealt with worse than this; I have faith that this team can still perform successfully.”

Morgan nodded in agreement, but you knew he still had his doubts, “Yes, sir.”

You all had dispersed through the jet, Emily and Spencer fiddling with a chess board between them, Morgan and Rossi both listening to music and staring dramatically through the window, and JJ flipping through her file in her own space, reading and rereading every word until her eyes ached. It was a habit, she knew, trying to memorize every detail of the case in order to justify her decision to present it to the team. Although choosing cases was no longer her responsibility, she still found herself with the guilt of not being able to help every person whose name was written in manila files on her desk. 

You sat across from Hotch, him close to the window, your feet propped up on his unused armrest. You hummed lowly to yourself while glancing over the file, fingers tapping against the manila to the beat of your voice.

“You know,” Hotch spoke up, “if you ruin this seat with your shoes, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

Your humming stopped and your eyes snapped up to him, catching the small smirk on the corner of his mouth, the smirk that he tried in vain to play off as he kept his gaze trained on the open file in his hand. A smirk of your own tugged at your lips, the papers in your grip falling lazily into your lap.

“You mess with my check, Hotchner, and I will consider you an enemy,” You threatened, your finger pointing at him to emphasize your words.

He shrugged casually, eyes lifting to meet yours, “I’ll add you to the list.”

Your angry resolve broke, a chuckle leaving your lips. Although his joking caught you off guard slightly, it all was oddly comfortable. His shoulders weren’t tight like they usually were, his eyebrows weren’t tensed, and his frown had disappeared. Usually, his rare humor would throw the whole team for a loop, but when it was just you and Hotch, there was just something so natural about it.

“Yeah, put my name right between ‘going to bed at a decent hour’ and ‘smiling’.” You retorted, narrowing your eyes and giving him nothing less than a shit-eating grin. 

His face dropped from the sly smirk to stone-cold in a split second, causing your smile to grow even wider.

“How did you know that?” He asked quietly. You laughed then, a full, joyful laughter. You didn’t see how his smile had returned, and his softened gaze stayed trained on you.

“I guess you could say I’m good at my job,” You replied, wiping under your eye as you caught your breath.

“Now that,” he pointed at you, “is something I can’t deny.”

You smiled again, but genuinely. It almost made you blush, him inadvertently saying that you were good at your job. He didn’t compliment people too often, but when he did, it was always completely genuine and special.

“But I will still make you pay for this seat.”

“Yeah, okay,” you giggled, waving your hand dismissively at him.

***

The crackle of dirt and gravel under your soles mixed with the bustling of law enforcement around you. Rossi walked close by, both of you stopping as you reached the true crime scene. He sighed deeply as his eyes scanned over the red stain in the terra-cotta colored dirt, trying to not think about how little the uniforms around him cared about the life that stain had once provided.

“It’s pretty desolate out here,” you stated, purposely keeping your eyes up as you scanned the mountains around you, “the Unsub definitely knows this place, he’s familiar with it.”

“That means he’s probably local,” David agreed, eyes never leaving the dried blood on the ground, “(Y/N), look at this and tell me what you see.”

Your eyes finally flickered down to the blood, your hands finding home in your pockets in an attempt to hide your clenching fists.

“It’s…” your voice trailed off, your head tilting slightly as you realized what David was hinting at, “It’s… small. Dakota was shot, this all just looks like blood lost from the scalping and the removal of the thumb.”

“Which means,” Rossi added, “this is just a dumpsite. He’s taking them to a secondary location.”

“How long between the missing person’s reports and the discovery of their bodies?”

“Hours, no more than a day.”

You sighed, stepping closer and lowering yourself towards the ground, elbows resting on your knees. “So, he’s not holding them, but he’s shooting them in a secondary location before bringing them to these mountains, and dumping them.” You stood again, turning to David, “Why?”

His head shook slightly, “Possibly a forensic countermeasure. If he were to shoot them here, he could leave behind casings, splatter patterns… more evidence than what we have now, at least.”

You glanced one last time at the ground before beginning to walk towards the SUV. “I think we should get back and tell them what we’ve found.”

Rossi got into the driver’s side while you settled in next to him, a matching frown on both of your faces. You looked out the window, allowing your mind to drift away from the case. Usually, you stopped straying thoughts before they could begin, but you decided to set them free for the duration of the car ride back to the station. Upon arrival, your mind was to be strictly business.

You first thought of Hotch. You thought of the exchange you had a few weeks prior, where he opened himself up to you, even if it was just a fraction of the feelings he kept bottled up inside. Things had shifted, at least in your perspective, since then. He was more… himself. When there wasn’t a case- those few and far between days of strictly paperwork- you would find him smiling a little more, always directed at you. It was always just a tilt of his lips, just a twitch at best, but you always noticed it. He would find you in the break room, he would make light conversation. It was always professional, always appropriate in his position of Unit Chief, but you knew it was more personal. 

Maybe it was your wishful thinking, maybe it was all made up by your own habit of overanalyzing. But, the physical reaction you had whenever those small moments of warm sunshine burst through the dark curtain of SSA Aaron Hotchner, the way your stomach turned and your cheeks ignited, now that… that was not constructed by your mind. That was a real, true reaction to a man you (apparently) liked a little more than you originally thought.

“Penny for your thoughts?” David cut your wondering short, and you were almost thankful for it.

“Hm?” You acknowledged, snapping out of your daze.

“Call me a profiler,” he chuckled, “but I know when you’re thinking too hard. Is something bothering you?”

“No, no,” you denied, a small laugh leaving your lips, “just, trying to stay focused on this case.”

“Hm.” He hummed, obviously not believing you. “Is it about the 16th?”

Your eyes snapped to him, his gaze holding steady on the road in front of him. A breath of pause added to the sudden tension in the air.

“How do you know about that?”

“Anytime Aaron Hotchner cries, you can be sure that I will know about it.”

You sunk back into your chair as another beat of silence filled the SUV. Honestly, you had no clue how to talk about the situation between you and Hotch. And frankly, you didn’t know if there even was a situation, it could all be made up in your head. Telling Rossi that you have the hots for your boss wouldn’t fix any problems you currently faced, it would only create new ones.

“I just want to see him happy,” you whispered, keeping your eyes forward.

“He is happy-“

“I mean, truly happy, Dave,” your head rolled towards him, his shoulders dropping slightly as he understood what you meant. He sighed heavily, readjusting his grip on the wheel.

“I think he lost that when he lost her, (Y/N), I don’t think he will ever go back to who he was before,” he sounded so sad, admitting that the man he considered family would never see a light he once knew.

“Maybe,” you agreed, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t try like hell to help him find it again.”

Dave glanced at you, a small smile tilting his lips up, “I think you’re the perfect person for the job.”

***

You had arrived just as Emily and Derek did, Hotch and the Captain of the station coming to meet you at the door.

“Captain McGuire, this is SSA Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), and David Rossi.” Aaron introduced. The captain politely shook all of your hands.

“Thank you all for coming,” his words were borderline disingenuous, but you smiled politely and let it go.

“We’ve got some news to share,” Dave said, turning towards Hotch. He responded with a nod before turning and leading the four of you to the Houston PD conference room, where Spencer and JJ were already waiting. Everyone stood around the table, unable to sit down with how uneasy the case felt.

“Everything here is just as you would imagine,” JJ began, clearly irritated, “these officers didn’t care enough to properly investigate these murders.”

“All of the families said that our victims were well respected, got along with other people, nothing too out of the ordinary,” Hotch added, his arms crossing over his chest as he looked at the evidence board.

“Dave and I think they’re being held in a secondary location,” you stated, everyone’s eyes turning to you. Your gaze met Aaron’s as you continued, “There wasn’t nearly enough blood at the scene for a man to have been shot there.”

“Forensic countermeasure?” Hotch inquired.

“That’s our guess.”

“Well,” Emily sighed, “I guess that makes more sense. The ME said the scalping and thumb removal was antemortem. The last step of his fantasy was shooting his victims. This guy would need somewhere to torture his victims without anyone hearing it.”

“I had Garcia do a search for any trespassing or squatting complaints around the mountains where the bodies were found, just to see if any witnesses saw the Unsub while he was disposing of his victims. There wasn’t anything significant,” Spencer chimed in.

“I’m starting to think this guy has more experience than we might think,” Morgan said, “he’s able to abduct, control, and torture grown men, then dispose of their bodies quietly.”

“What does that mean?” JJ asked.

“It means there’s probably more victims,” Hotch was storming out of the room as he spoke. You were close behind him.

“Spence, call Penelope, have her start digging!” you quickly spoke, hurrying to keep up with Hotch. You weren’t sure why, but you knew he was furious. He must have put something together before you.

“Hotch, Hotch!” You hissed, jogging lightly to catch up to him. “Aaron!” You finally stood in front of him, his angry steps halting before he could run you over, but his glare still trained on the door to Captain McGuire’s office.

Your hands hovered in front of you, level with his chest. You scanned his face, seeing nothing but anger in the way he glared over your shoulder.

“What is going on?” You asked quietly, teeth clenched together. It was then that his eyes flickered to you for a fraction of a second, a deep breath leaving his lungs. His shoulders lost some tension and his eyes closed, his attempt at calming himself clearly visible.

“We know this station is riddled with cops who don’t care about justice for anyone of Native descent,” he began, his voice low and dangerous, “how many people have died without justice? How many were at the hands of the same Unsub we’re trying to catch?”

“Hotch,” you tread carefully, “believe me when I say I am equally as furious as you. However, you, of all people, know that storming into that office right now will only cause more problems. We are surrounded by people who don’t care if we leave here successful or not, and the Captain may be a part of that group. We need to be smart about this.”

He huffed, but he knew you were right. It was a bit out of character, him getting so upset without being able to control it. He noticed that since Hailey had died, his emotions were a little stronger and a little harder to control, especially when it came to his job. His need for justice made him do things he would have never done when she was alive.

Was it a fault or strength?

“How do you propose we do that?” He asked, his voice more gentle than before.

“Let me go in there, break the news,” you offered, “if that man is anything like who I think he is, I could bat my eyes and get anything I want from him.”

Aaron’s gaze shifted from you, to the office, then to you again. “Okay,” he finally agreed, “in and out. Be careful.”

“Yes, sir,” you grinned, turning and walking towards the Captain’s office. You glanced back over your shoulder, seeing Hotch in the same exact spot you left him. Sending him a small wink, you reached the door and let yourself inside.

Hotch took another deep breath as you disappeared into the office, once again trying to calm himself. He had faith in you, he knew you could handle yourself, but the thought of that man- any other man, in fact- looking at you in the way he knew that Captain was going to look at you… well, that made him furious all over again. It was completely inappropriate, he knew, but he knew it wasn’t something that was within his control. He had just been feeling a greater sense- a greater need- to protect you, to make sure you were okay. He, himself, had a lot of questions about it. Why was he feeling this way? When did it start? Am I even able to feel this way again? Of course, he didn’t have any answers to his own questions. It always seemed to be that way. So many questions, all unanswered.

Despite his better judgment, he turned towards the conference room, fighting the bubbling anger in his chest.

***

The door clicked closed behind you, Captain McGuire’s eyes shifting from his paperwork to your face, then dragging down your body. You cleared your throat, your heartbeat already picking up slightly. You weren’t nervous, you knew you could take him down in a second if need be, but the way he looked at you like you were an object almost made you see red.

“Agent (Y/L/N), please, have a seat,” he gestured to the chair across from his desk.

“Thank you,” you spoke quietly, sitting down and crossing your legs, “I just came to discuss something quickly.”

“Of course, what is it?” He leaned forward on his elbows, a sign that he did, in fact, like you. You already knew that, of course, but the confirmation did make you a bit more confident.

“You see, we seem to think that this particular Unsub didn’t start killing three weeks ago. We think there’s previous cases,” you kept your voice soft, playing up an innocence you found that all men had some form of attraction to. 

“With all due respect, I think I would remember a case like this.” He held his hand up as he talked in a way of dismissing you. You knew you could either snap at him and get kicked out, or play along and possibly get what you want. You had to feed into his ego.

“Oh, absolutely,” you agreed, uncrossing your legs and leaning forward, elbows resting on your knees. It gave him a full view, so to speak, and his eyes shifted exactly here you wanted them to. So predictable. “I would never insult your intelligence like that, sir,” he seemed to perk up at that nickname, “we’re just asking that you do a review with your officers, maybe someone will remember something they didn’t before?”

His eyes met yours again, and he had to clear his throat before he talked.

“Anything you need,” he was trying to flirt back now.

“Thank you, sir,” with a smirk, you stood and walked out, feeling the eyes of Captain McGuire follow you the entire way. As soon as the door was completely shut, you felt a chill run down your spine and you let yourself shiver. 

You really hoped your flirting would get you something.

***

“Garcia, I need you to look for any cases within the Houston area that might be linked to these,” Spencer spoke into the phone.

“I already have, my little Einstein,” Garcia’s voice crackled through the speaker, “there’s nothing that looks like these.”

“They’re gonna be hidden, babygirl,” Morgan pressed, “details might have been left out in the case files. Send us anything that has even the smallest connection.”

“I’m going to need more time for that, love,” she sighed, nothing but disappointed in Houston authorities.

“Work fast for me, baby.”

“Oh, my beautiful, brown Hercules, do I work at any other speed?” She spoke seductively, earning a few smiles from the intensely frustrated team surrounding the phone.

“You never disappoint,” Morgan cooed, taking the phone and hanging up the call.

Hotch reached the room shortly after the call, everyone’s eyes snapping towards him as he entered. He looked over his team, eyebrows pulled downward, expression stone-cold.

“Are you okay, sir?” JJ asked bravely, her voice soft and understanding.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, “anything from Garcia?”

And just like that, Derek began to update Hotch on what Penelope was searching for, and all was forgotten. Hotch was good at that- making everyone forget about what he was feeling. The question he dreaded most was also the question he heard the most- are you okay? He would hear those three words and immediately have to find an escape, and excuse, as to why he couldn’t quite answer them. His feelings were ones that were felt only by him, shared only to the family picture he kept on his nightstand. It was comfortable, easy, and it kept him away from vulnerability.

He made sure he was facing towards the door of Captain McGuire while he worked, his gaze constantly flickering upwards and out the window of the conference room, hoping to find you there every time. When you finally emerged, he could tell how uncomfortable you were. You let yourself shiver, taking a moment to breathe before moving towards the conference room. Hotch made sure to meet you at the door.

“Anything?” He asked as soon as the door shut behind you. You sighed heavily before answering.

“He said he will reopen some cases and do some debriefing, but I honestly don’t think we will be getting much out of it.”

His eyes closed and he shook his head in disappointment. “Okay,” he finally spoke, “we’re on our own here.”

“Hotch, come look at this,” Derek called, pulling Aaron’s attention away from you. He hurried to Morgan, looking at the photograph held between them.

You moved towards the table and began working, praying to any God, any higher being, that something- anything- would catch a lead in the case.

***

“If I read one more file before I get a cup of coffee, I just might rip it to shreds,” you muttered, shoving your eyes into the heels of your hands. Your elbows rested heavily on the conference table you sat at, the many, many reviewed files scattered between you and the rest of the team. Analyzing them for any connections had been nothing short of tedious and time consuming.

It had been hours now, and nothing new had come to light. The sun had fallen asleep long ago, dipping behind the mountains, leaving a path of stars in its wake. The moon shone fully, the soft white blanketing Houston in a gentle embrace. You wished you could be sitting on the balcony of your apartment, staring at the twinkling of the stars and bathing in the cool air, your only warmth coming from a cup of hot tea gently resting in your hands. Instead, you were staring at pictures of dead men, trying to get ahead of a killer that was many, many steps ahead of you.

“Spence, have you found anything?” JJ asked, her voice sounding just as exhausted as you felt. 

“I’ve read every file at least twice now,” he sighed, “I’m sorry, I can’t find any connections.”

“Don’t apologize, you’re doing everything you can,” you scolded softly, pointing a lazy finger towards him.

“Thank you,” he spoke gently, a thankful smile on his lips.

Your eyes returned to the papers before you, scanning over a single sentence before you gave up, “Why are we still looking, anyways? What do you think we’re going to find when- and if- we find any more victims?” Your hands accented your words, your frustration abundantly clear.

“MO,” Morgan answered shortly, “we need to know how this Unsub started- when he was still learning how to kill, when he was discovering what he liked most. That’s when he first made his mistakes.”

“Okay,” Rossi chimed in, “but how do we know that those cases were fully investigated? What if they’re just as neglected as the three we already have?”

Morgan sighed and ran a hand down his face, looking utterly defeated, “I don’t know.”

The ringing of Morgan’s cell phone caught everyone’s attention. He answered quickly, putting it on speaker.

“What’d you find, baby? You’re on speaker,” He asked.

“I’m sorry to report that I haven’t found much of anything,” Garcia said, “I mean, there are lots and lots of middle-aged, Native American men dying- which breaks my heart into very little, tiny pieces- but nothing that fits into our timeline or modus operandi.”

“Try expanding to neighboring states,” Emily recommended.

“I already did, sweet Emily,” Garcia sighed, “nothing.”

“Alright,” Morgan sighed, eyes closing as he exhaled, “keep searching, babygirl. Let us know if anything pops up.”

“Of course,” she sounded just as disappointed, “heads up, loves, we will find something.” Morgan hung up, setting his phone down before dragging a hand down his face.

Hotch’s file flipped shut in his hands, the fluttering catching the team’s attention, “We need to take a step back. Looking over the same words won’t get us any further.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Dave asked.

“Take an hour. Get coffee, food, whatever you need,” Hotch stood from his chair, straightening his suit jacket, “I wish we could stop for the day and return tomorrow, but we don’t have that kind of time.”

You stood, stretching your arms above your head, “Well,” your arms dropped to your sides, “I’ll take an hour. Hell, I would take 15 minutes. Any time for a mental break would be beneficial, at this point.”

“There’s a 24 hour pizza shop one block east,” JJ pointed out, “want to grab a bite there?”

“I’m in,” Derek stood.

“Me too,” Spencer agreed, rising as well.

“Pizza sounds so good right now,” Emily whined.

“Only if it is authentic,” Dave wagered, “(Y/N)? Hotch?”

“If I get full right now, I will definitely pass out,” you chuckled, “you guys go ahead.”

“Hotch?” Dave repeated.

“I’m okay, thank you,” his lips twitched into a polite smile for only a moment, then it was gone once again.

“Suit yourselves,” Derek teased, sending the two of you a dazzling smile as the rest of the team left the conference room.

You dared to peek over at Hotch, watching as his eyes looked back down at the numerous open files in his workstation. He even picked one up from the table to get a closer look.

“This break includes you, you know,” you said, smirking when his eyes jumped from the page to you. He set down the file again, a sigh falling from his lips.

“I don’t think I could take a break from this one, even if I wanted to,” he shook his head slightly as he spoke, arms crossing over his chest. A small silence filled the room.

“Okay,” you sighed, “I’m going to get us some coffee- good coffee, from the store across the street- and maybe some food, then we can sit and look over some of these together. Maybe we can find things together that we can’t find alone.”

He nodded, pulling out his chair and settling into it, “I would appreciate that, thank you.”

You smiled, nodding once in his direction. His eyes were already back on the files before you had even turned to leave. Something about this case bothered him, deeply, and you were almost certain you knew what it was. 

Ever since Foyet came and destroyed nearly everything Aaron loved, particular cases weighed on his mind a bit heavier. It all came down to justice. Hotch couldn’t stand to see anyone or anything come in the way of true justice. You weren’t completely sure as to how Hailey’s death or George Foyet could have sparked this, you only knew of how angry Aaron would get now if anyone stood in his way.

You entered the corner store, heading straight to the hot coffee by the drink station. The fluorescent lighting only irritated the headache you had been fighting for the past hour, but you just ignored the pain as you came to a stop in front of the industrial sized coffee maker. You pulled two large, styrofoam cups from the dispenser, filling one to the very top with rich, black coffee, for Hotch. The steam billowing from the cup made your lips twitch up into a smile, the thought of caffeine beginning to change your mood for the better. Quickly making your own cup of self motivation, you moved towards the check out counter, the employee behind it looking just as tired as you felt.

“Just those?” She asked, finger already tapping away on the screen before her. You pulled a PayDay (Aaron’s favorite candy bar), from the small display on the counter and placed it next to the coffees.

“And that,” you answered politely, “thank you.” Your eyes wandered over the small keychains and magnets displayed on the counter. Most read ‘HOUSTON’ in large, colorful lettering, while others were decorated with horses and huge, green fields. Your head tilted as you looked, and a particular keychain caught your eye.

It was silver, sparkling subtly in the harsh lighting. You reached out and pulled it from behind the ‘HOUSTON’ keychains, the small cowboy hat resting on the ends of your fingers. Your eyebrows furrowed as you thought, becoming completely entranced by the small trinket.

“That one’s real popular,” the employee drawled, her southern accent pulling at her words, “everyone wants to be a cowboy, these days.”

“I see,” you replied quietly, still staring at the keychain. 

“It’ll be $2.38 for those coffees and candy, ma’am.”

You shook your head, snapping out of your trance, “Yes, of course, sorry.” A nervous laugh left your lips as you reached for your wallet, the silver hat falling away from your hand. Quickly handing her a five dollar bill, you grabbed the coffee cups and candy bar before she even managed to open the register. “Keep the change, thank you!”

You almost ran out the door, needing to get to Hotch immediately.

***

“Hotch!” You all but burst into the conference room, kicking the door shut behind you, “I think I might have something!”

He looked up at you, slightly startled by your sudden entrance (but he would never admit it), “What is it?” 

You almost laughed at how calm he sounded in comparison to how loudly your heart was pounding in your ears. Promptly setting his coffee and PayDay in front of him, you yanked a chair over until the armrest clinked against Hotch’s chair, then sat and set your own coffee down.

“Remember what JJ said about the costumes, on the plane?” You asked excitedly.

“Something about looking like an old Western-“

“Exactly!” You interrupted, “I might be jumping to conclusions, but the gun, the scalping, the race of our targets,” you counted your list on your fingers as you spoke, “I think our Unsub’s fantasy includes him being a cowboy. Like, a heroic, wild west cowboy.”

He nodded, eyebrows dipping as he thought it over, “That would explain the extreme sadism,” he added, “the narrative of most of those shows are cowboys versus Indians.”

“So,” you took a quick sip of your coffee, “maybe we should be looking for other murders that included any type of rope, gun- hell, even something like a horse.”

“That will help narrow it down,” he agreed.

“And! I almost forgot!” You couldn’t contain yourself, “Ranches, farms- they’re huge pieces of land that would be a very smart location to torture someone quietly.”

“We need to call Garcia,” he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket quickly, “and (Y/N)?”

“Hm?”

“Good work, really,” his hand rested on your shoulder, “but I’ve never expected any less.”

Before you even had a chance to respond, his phone was to his ear, and he was asking Garcia to narrow her search to the new parameters you had discovered. He rose and walked toward the board, looking over the crime scene photos, hand resting on his hip, as he talked. You just sat still, shoulder burning where his hand had laid, heart pounding in your ears. The warmth of his compliment surrounded you, making your cheeks hot and your mind fuzzy. A smile slowly edged it’s way onto your face, your shoulders rising as you held your coffee a bit closer, trying desperately to keep that warm feeling inside. You knew how ridiculous it was, to be sent into a full blush over a small compliment- and quite frankly, it was a compliment you heard a lot- but the mere fact that it came from SSA Aaron Hotchner, the man you found yourself think about way too often, made it all that more special.

“Thank you, Garcia,” he hung up the phone, turning to you again, “you should take a break. I can handle this by myself for a while.”

You relaxed back into your chair, taking a slow sip of your coffee, “You first, Hotch.” A smirk found its way to your lips.

“I’m fine.”

“No one ever says that when they’re actually fine.”

He just stared at you for a long moment, gaze narrowing slightly.

“You’re not going to budge on this, are you?” He asked.

“Not an inch,” the smirk never left your face. A smile of his own played on his lips.

“Fine,” he conceded, “but, as soon as Garcia calls back, it’s back to work.”

“Deal,” you nodded, “now, come sit and enjoy your coffee and candy I got you.”

He followed your orders, settling into the chair beside you (which was very close to you), and finally taking a drink of his coffee. A content sigh made his shoulders relax, eyes closing as he set down his cup.

“I never knew coffee from a gas station could taste so good,” he sighed, eyes meeting yours as a content smile settled on his lips.

“You’re welcome,” you teased, nudging his arm with your elbow.

“And this,” he held up the PayDay, “is my favorite. How did you figure that out?”

“Every old man likes PayDays,” you said cheekily, biting down on your lower lip to keep yourself from giggling. His eyes narrowed at you, but his smile only grew.

“I could put in an insubordination complaint right now,” he threatened.

You relaxed in your chair, letting out a noncommittal sigh, “Just show me where to sign, Hotchner.”

He laughed, putting the candy back on the table and shaking his head, “You’re lucky I understand your humor.”

“And it’s one of the reasons why we get along so well, Hotch,” your nudged his shoulder. 

He chuckled a bit, his smile settling on his lips. He looked deep in thought, a certain tenseness tightening his shoulders and making a muscle leap in his jaw. You looked over at his hand, noticing how it fiddled with the corner of the candy’s packaging.

“What’s bothering you?” You asked, not really expecting much of an answer. He had opened up to you before, but it had been extremely late at the time, and he was, in that moment, probably more sleep deprived than rational.

He locked eyes with you, staring for a moment before speaking, “I’m sorry you had to talk to Captain McGuire,” he looked away, “and that nothing really came of it.”

“It’s okay,” you reassured, slightly confused as to why he looked so guilty about it, “I did it because he potentially had information that would be useful to us. I’d flirt with every dirtbag in this station if I thought it could help us.”

“I know, and that is what makes you so valuable to this team,” he avoided your eyes, reaching for his cup again, “you’re able to control your own emotions in order to do your job.” He took a sip.

Oh. You thought, that’s it.

“Hotch, you had every right to be angry.”

His eyes snapped to you, unmistakably surprised that you saw through him. Well, maybe he was aware that it wouldn’t be too hard to see what was bothering him, but he wasn’t used to someone just… calling him out completely.

“I was irrational,” he spoke, “unprofessional.”

“If I was in your shoes, I would have acted the same way.” Your hand hesitantly found his arm, palm resting on his bicep and fingers landing on his shoulder. His gaze flickered down to your hand, then met your eyes once again.

“You’re allowed to be human,” you said, softly, “and sometimes, humans have emotions. That’s kind of the whole reason why we have a job.” You giggled a bit as you spoke, trying to show him how ridiculous it was to feel guilty for a perfectly natural and normal reaction.

“Did he bother you too much?” He asked, nodding towards the office of Captain McGuire. You chose to ignore how he had changed to subject.

“No, not really,” your hand fell away from his arm, feeling noticeably colder when contact was lost, “I’ve heard worse from the men I meet at bars.” You chuckled a bit, shaking your head, “You know, you should hear some of the things I say to drunk men that bother me. I think you would find it amusing.”

Of course he would, he would love to hear you put a man in his place. The feisty attitude you saved for those who bothered you was one of his favorite things about you. It never failed to make him smile, wether it was directed at someone else or- on occasion- him. Your demeanor was nothing short of soft and caring, but once someone crossed you, well… hell hath no fury quite like yours. 

“I would have to agree with you on that,” he chuckled, finally beginning to loosen up, “but, please, if any of these officers seriously bother you, tell me.”

“Alright,” you held your hands up in mock defense, “but I can’t guarantee that I will hold off on putting my two cents in.”

“I wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of that.”

“Good.” You smiled brightly. He returned it, having to look away before his face began to flush red. He wanted to just reach out and touch you- hold your hand, hug you, anything- but the thought of trying made his hands start to shake. You made him nervous, a feeling that he didn’t feel often, that he didn’t enjoy at all. But, he knew what it meant. He knew that he was far past the point of no return; the future would consist of his complete and utter falling for you. It terrified him, honestly, but it also thrilled him. He knew what love was, he knew how it felt. The ‘great love’ every one always fantasizes over, was a love he had already experienced. And God, was he determined to feel that again. Not always- he wasn’t always in the pursuit of love- but ever since he met you, that perspective changed.

But it still was frightening, the thought of loving you. He had experienced love, but he also had experienced loss. He knew that letting you take full control of his heart would be putting himself at risk of extreme, unimaginable pain. Pain that he never wished to feel again. Pain that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. It was a dangerous, terrible gamble, the game of love. On one hand, he would be sacrificing himself in the constant war he fought with vulnerability, but on the other hand, he could mend the still broken pieces of his heart and be whole again.

The shrill ringing of your phone pulled him away from his internal battles, his brown eyes finding your (Y/E/C) ones.

“Garcia,” you breathed out, promptly answering and putting the phone on speaker. “You’re with me and Hotch, Pen, what’d you find?”

“Hello my lovely lady and sir, I have two potential victims for you,” she answered, the indistinct clicking of a keyboard in the background. “I narrowed the search with everything you gave me, then again to any murders that took place Thursday through Saturday.”

“The same time frame he’s using now,” Hotch added.

“Exactly. That search left me with two names,” she paused a moment, probably pulling up the case files on her screens, “Kenneth Thompson, 35, died six weeks ago by a single gunshot wound to the chest, and his body was found in his apartment, with his limbs hogtied, like a cow… or a little piggy.”

“His race?” You asked.

“White, which doesn’t match our latest victims, but I have more,” the clicking was heard again,   
“Carlos Dominguez, a 32 year old hispanic man, found four weeks ago, dead, by a single gunshot would. But, there are also reports of deep lacerations to his hairline area.”

“So, he tried to carry out his fantasy, but it quickly died when he couldn’t ignore that Carlos was hispanic.” You suggested.

“He always favored the shooting,” Hotch said, “but didn’t develop the hatred towards the Native Americans until his third victim.”

“Or rather, he just realized that he couldn’t use surrogates for them. He needs the real thing.”

“That explains the development of the thumb removal- if he kills Natives with the belief of an afterlife, then he can’t let them go to their version of heaven. It wasn’t necessary for the first two victims.”

“He makes them suffer, even in death,” you shook your head, completely disgusted, “thank you, Garcia.” You hung up the phone, placing it back on the table and leaning back into your chair. Your eyes eventually found Hotch, whose elbow sat on the tabletop, his jaw cupped in his hand.

“I think we need to call the team back in here,” you said quietly. He checked the watch on his wrist briefly, then returned his hand to his chin.

“They have fifteen minutes, let them have it.” He muttered.

***

Briefing the team when they returned was anything but nice. They stood around the conference table once more, as Hotch told them about the new victims and the Unsub’s MO. Revealing and analyzing the true sadism of this Unsub was something that even Emily struggled with. The more the team learned, the more motivated they were to stop him.You could see them all getting visibly more distraught the more you told them.

“So, this guy is just playing cowboy?” Derek asked, anger evident in his voice.

“‘Playing cowboy’ is a very tame way to put it,” Emily scoffed.

“How do we even go about trying to find this guy?” JJ asked, arms crossed over her chest.

“We can start with farmland,” Dave suggested, “single out any that are secluded, or on very large pieces of land.”

“Let’s call Garcia,” you said, taking your phone out of your pocket.

“How big would a farm have to be in order to be secluded enough for this Unsub to operate?” Emily wondered.

“If we take into the fact that the Unsub is probably firing a gun on his property,” Spencer began, fingers intertwining together as he thought, “and, a football field- without the end zones- are roughly 1.38 acres, or 60,112.8 square feet, I would say you would need at least four or five acres to conceal that type of noise.”

“What can I do for you, Holmes?” Garcia chirped through the phone.

“We need you to pull land deeds- look for any farms with at least four acres of land, within the comfort zone,” you said, holding the phone near your voice.

“Got it,” she began typing away, “oh, my- well, you have 143 matches, my dear.”

“You said he hogtied his first victim,” Dave pointed towards you, “Garcia, narrow it down to farms that have cow and/or pigs on them. He had to learn how to tie a knot like that somewhere.”

“You have a brilliant mind, my Italian Stallion,” Garcia praised, “we’re down to 87.”

“How many of those also have horses?” Emily asked, “Can’t be a cowboy without a horse.”

“22.”

“That’s still too many,” you sighed. Hotch laid his palms flat on the conference table, head bowing in defeat.

“We’re missing something,” Spencer mumbled, walking towards the evidence board with narrowed eyes. His head tilted as he stared at it, mouthing words to himself silently.

“What do you see, kid?” Derek asked, taking a step towards Spencer.

“The gun,” he responded, finally.

“The gun?” Morgan questioned. Before getting an answer, Reid had whipped around towards the phone.

“Garcia, the first two victims, what did they conclude about the gun used?” He spoke quickly.

“Um,” she typed just as fast, “it was registered, but reported stolen two weeks prior by 62 year old Harvey Pooler… oh no, Pooler died four days before Kenneth was killed. Heart attack.”

“Did Pooler own a farm?” Spencer asked.

“Let me… see,” a small gasp came through the phone, “He did.”

“Take a 50 mile radius from the Pooler farm and cross that with our 22 potentials.”

There was a couple seconds of typing before she spoke again, “We have a hit. Five acres owned by a Timothy Locke.”

“What do you have on him?” Emily pressed.

“He lived there his whole life,” Garcia spoke quickly, “mother died when he was young, father was… well, not the best father. Multiple trips to the ER when Timothy was still little Timmy.”

“Where’s the father now?” Hotch asked.

“Dead,” she answered shortly, “Month and a half ago, natural causes.”

“That’s right when the killings began,” Rossi observed.

“There’s our stressor,” JJ added.

“What about hobbies? Places he frequented? Anything to tie him to the cowboy fantasy,” You asked.

“Besides his ownership of horses,” Garcia clicked away on her keypad, “he was a frequent flyer of the local rodeo, even participated in it… oh no.”

“What is it, babygirl?” Morgan asked worriedly.

“This particular rodeo, well, it was more of a reenactment type of show,” she explained, “most of their ‘historical retellings’ were that of the wild, wild west. The racist, kill the Natives, wild, wild, west.”

“Garcia-“ Hotch began.

“Oh, honey, I know. Addresses are sent… now.”

“Let’s go,” Hotch said, everyone starting to hurry out of the room.

“Be safe, my loves!” Garcia called.

“Love you, Penny, great work,” you told her, before hanging up and following your team towards the SUVs.

***

The kevlar vest reading ‘FBI’ hung on your shoulders, the slight weight grounding you completely in the events that were about to occur. You glanced over to Hotch- who was staring straight at the dirt road with both hands on the wheel- then looked over your shoulder at Reid and Emily in the backseat, nodding at them slightly before facing forward once again. Your heart was already racing with adrenaline, the rhythmic beat loud in your ears.

Emily glanced out the window, eyes scanning over the seemingly endless fields surrounding the many farms in the area. It all looked so peaceful, the way the green blades stretched towards a crystal blue sky, it was almost heartbreaking that such awful, heinous deaths had occurred on the very same land.

Spencer was leaned over slightly to see out of the front windshield, eyebrows pulled downwards and lips set in a serious frown. He was scanning for a farmhouse, a shed, anywhere that someone could keep another person hostage. The three of you were already driving on the property, just looking for the specific spot where the Unsub operated.

“Over there,” Spencer pointed to the right, a small, white, wooden house coming into view. Hotch turned sharply down a dirt road that shot off the main one, hoping it would lead up to the farmhouse Spencer had spotted.

It wasn’t long before the vehicle stopped, the four of you swiftly jumping from your seats, meeting Dave, JJ, and Morgan as they also left their SUV. You looked up at the farmhouse, eyes squinting slightly from the now rising sun. It was large enough to be comfortable for two, maybe three, people, with a front porch that lead to the entrance. It was two stories, a small, round window sitting on the front and center of the house. The white of the painted wood seemed to illuminate in the orange of an awakening sun, and you could’ve called it beautiful, if you weren’t aware of the horrors that took place inside.

“What’s our plan?” Emily asked, facing Hotch.

“We’re going to do a soft entry,” he began, “Morgan, Reid, and JJ will lead in the front, Dave and I will go around the back. Prentiss, (Y/L/N), there’s a cellar to the right, take some SWAT officers with you, but I want you to clear below.”

“You got it, boss,” you nodded, turning and calling over two SWAT members.

“Alright,” Hotch drew his gun, “Let’s go.”

You and Emily moved alongside Derek, Spencer, and JJ, breaking off as they closed in on the front door. You reached the doors of the cellar, looking over at Emily. She looked back at you, smiling slightly and offering a reassuring nod before grabbing ahold of the handle on the left door. You took a deep breath and grabbed the other one, looking back to Emily once more.

“One,” she counted softly, “two… three.”

You both simultaneously lifted the doors, the two-man SWAT team moving forward, descending the stairs before you and Emily. You were close behind, guns raised. Your flashlight moved around the room, finding it to be mostly empty, save for a few cardboard boxes in the corner. You turned to your right, finding a door tucked away by the staircase.

“Emily,” you alerted, “we have a door.”

She moved over to stand beside you, “Boys, over here,” she beckoned the SWAT officers, nodding toward the door with her head.

They approached slowly and quietly, taking position on each side of the doorframe. One reached out and placed a soft hand on the doorknob, waiting three seconds before turning it and pushing it open, immediately drawing their weapons in from of them as they cleared the small room. You and Emily followed them in once again, your eyes going straight to the unconscious man in the very middle of the floor. His head hung, arms bound behind him and legs bound to the chair he was sat in. His shoulders slumped, his hair stringy, and a small trail of blood trickled down his forehead.

You rushed towards him, the light flickering on as you knelt down beside him. Emily’s hand left the light switch and moved to the restraints on the man’s hands, working quickly at the knots. With gentle pressure, you pushed your fingers on his neck, breathing out a sigh of relief when you felt a pulse beneath them.

“We need a medic in the cellar,” you spoke into your radio, keeping your fingertips against the man’s pulse and taking a silent count of how many beats passed every minute.

“Sir?” Emily asked, finally untying his hands, “Sir? Can you hear me?” She had to hold onto his shoulders to keep him from slumping completely forward.

“We found the hostage, Hotch,” you said into your comm device, “currently unresponsive, we have medics en route.”

There was no answer.

“Hotch?”

Silence. You looked up at Emily, whose worried expression matched yours.

“Hotch,” she tried, “can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Hotch, Reid, Morgan,” you spoke quickly, “JJ, Rossi, do you copy?”

Radio silence.

“Stay with him,” you said, quickly rising to your feet.

“(Y/N), what are you-“

“You,” you pointed at one of the SWAT members, “come with me.”

“You can’t just go up there- (Y/N)!”

You ignored Emily’s protests, jogging up the stairs of the cellar, the SWAT officer right behind you. Holding your gun in front of you, you turned left, heading towards the back of the house. Reaching the back door, you slowly crept up the stairs, clearing right as the SWAT member cleared left. The first room was the kitchen, small and vintage, then you passed into a living room, with purple couches sitting in front of an ancient TV. Cowboy themed decor hung on every square inch of the walls, ranging from horseshoes to framed photographs of Western icons, such as John Wayne. You moved through the room, turning left through a doorway, which led to the entrance of the house. Pink and yellow sunlight leaked through the glass detailing at the top of the door, illuminating the staircase that sat almost directly in front of it. The SWAT officer appeared on the other side of the entryway, nodding towards you in a silent was of saying ‘all clear’. You nodded back, allowing him to ascend the stairs before you, his boots creaking slightly against the steps. 

As you neared the top of the stairs, you could hear the low voice that plagued your every thought, the voice that talked to you in your best dreams and worst nightmares, always speaking of comfort and serenity.

“Timothy, we just want to talk-“

A sickening, teasing laugh cut Aaron off, the unmistakable sound of heeled boots tapping against the floor echoing through the house.

“We both know that’s not why you’re here, officer,” a southern accent laced through his words, his voice dark and deep.

You crept towards the voices, which were carrying down the hall. One door was open, down near the end and to the right. With quiet steps, you made your way towards it. You held your hand out toward the SWAT member, having him stop a few feet behind you. Placing yourself at the edge of the doorframe, back passed firmly against the wall, you dared to peek your head into the room. 

That’s when the smell started to hit you. It was rotten, pungent, and… familiar. Your nose crinkled, eyebrows furrowing as you tried to understand why you recognized something so awful. Then, you realized.

The smell of death.

Your eyes scanned over the walls, stopping at a far corner. Hanging from the ceiling were the three scalps that were taken from your victims, a silver bullet casing tied with each one of them. You took in a shaky breath, trying to stop yourself from hearing their screams, or picturing the way they looked as they were tortured. 

Shaking your head to clear those thoughts, you turned you attention back to your team.

The Unsub’s back was to you, JJ held firmly in a chokehold with his left arm, his right hand holding a revolver with the barrel pressed to her temple. Hotch, Morgan, and Reid stood in a semi-circle in front of him, guns all drawn and aimed.

“You don’t have to do this, man,” Morgan bargained.

“Of course I do,” Timothy Locke, the Unsub, laughed again, “if I have her,” he shook JJ slightly, “then I have a chance of leaving here alive.”

You moved your head out a little more, catching Hotch’s eye. Looking between you and Timothy, he nodded, ever so slightly. You knew what he meant, you didn’t need his words to know what you had to do.

Quickly, you switched to the left side of the doorframe, positioning yourself to enter the room without Locke seeing you.

“Putting the gun down and surrendering will get you out of here alive,” Spencer urged, clearly distraught that the Unsub was holding a gun to his best friend’s head.

“And you would love it if I did just that, wouldn’t ya?” Locke sneered, readjusting his grip on his gun slightly.

You slipped into the room silently, gun raised and steps slow. Hotch’s eyes flicked to you every few seconds, his expression- hardened and serious, but what else is new- unchanging. 

“We know what your dad used to do to you,” Hotch said lowly, catching the attention of Timothy.

“You don’t know shit.”

“We know of the hospital visits, the broken bones. We know that you were left alone with him after your mother died,” Aaron’s voice was unfaltering, purposely trying to irritate Locke.

It was working.

“I said,” he hissed, “you don’t know shit.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Timothy took a deep breath in before speaking, “Do you know what happened in this house? Between these walls? How every time I wasn’t good enough or smart en-“ his hands swung out to the side as he talked, his anger getting the best of him. In one swift movement, his right arm had extended away from JJ, and you were holstering your own gun and lunging for Locke’s weapon.

You pushed his arm backwards, his hand tightening from the surprise. A single gunshot rang out, and a searing pain ripped through your left arm, causing you to cry out. JJ moved out of his grasp, which had loosened significantly, turning towards him and kicking his left knee inward, making him sink to the floor. You pressed your right hand to the hole in your arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding, using the last bit of adrenaline in your body to swing your leg up and connect your foot to the face of Timothy Locke, making contact with a sickening crack, rendering him unconscious. He was down before Derek, Spencer, and Aaron had even moved forward- it had to be less than ten seconds.

Spencer reached you first, pressing his palm over your hand, applying more pressure as your grip started to loosen and your fingers slipped from beneath his.

“Look at me, (Y/N), look at me,” he ordered. You tried to, but your head was dizzying and you were having a hard time keeping your eyes open.

“You’re going to go into shock,” he spoke quickly, “just keep your eyes open, okay?”

After cuffing Locke and checking in with JJ, Hotch rushed towards you, reaching you just as your knees buckled and gave out from below you. His arms held you steady, his knees bending as he slowly sank down to the floor with you.

“I- I don’t think the artery was hit, but there’s a lot of bleeding, so I’m not su-“

“Reid.” Hotch interrupted. Spencer’s eyes shifted from you to Hotch, eyebrows turned upwards, nothing but worry in his features.

“Call for medics again,” he instructed Spencer, whose hand was still on your arm, “don’t stop calling until they get here.”

Hotch’s hand replaced Reid’s, his free arm holding you against his chest. Your eyelids still drooped up and down, your battle with sleep being anything but victorious. It was almost like a dream, blurry and vague, with a feeling of unfamiliarity. You weren’t completely aware of what was happening. Hell, you still were not feeling the pain of a bullet passing through your arm. That’s how you knew something was very, very wrong.

“Keep your eyes open,” Hotch spoke, his soft words landing delicately on your ears, “keep looking at me, (Y/N).”

The corner of your mouth tilted slightly, “I got,” you let out a small giggle, high on adrenaline, “I got shot, Hotchie.”

“Yes, I know, honey,” his voice was still soft but by God, was he using all his strength to keep it that way. He fought against the way his heart threatened to leap from his chest, the way his mind became frantic at the sight of your blood painting his fingers crimson, the way he could feel his breaths losing rhythm. 

It was through and through, he thought, it will be okay, they will be okay. 

And yet, despite his logical thoughts, he felt like he could cry as he held you close.

“Did you get him?” You asked, your words weary and strained.

“We did,” Aaron could only whisper to keep his voice from breaking, “you saved them, (Y/N). Now, just do me one favor and keep your eyes open.”

Your hand shakily covered his, your fingertips delicate they brushed lazily over his knuckles. The small touch brought a small, content smile to your face- and that mad tears reach Aaron’s eyes.

He looked up as the EMTs burst through the door, kits jostling in their hands. Seeing them felt like taking a breath out of water, like he could finally get oxygen in his lungs again. He looked back to your drooping eyes as they pulled you out of his arms, working quickly to stop your bleeding.

He stood and backed away, stumbling over his own feet slightly, his gaze never leaving you. You were moved to a plastic cot, straps securing your head, chest, and legs, as you were lifted from the ground and ushered through the door. Hotch stayed where he was, focus trained on the pool of blood that began to seep into the wooden floor, turning it a dark burgundy. His mind attempted to understand that the stain was, in fact, from your blood. Suddenly, the weight of what he saw everyday piled on his shoulders, from the gruesome photos to the actual victims. He was always aware of their humanity, of their worth, but his jaded mind could look past that and move along. Now, it seemed he couldn’t hide behind compartmentalization and insensitivity. 

Sirens chirped outside, the sound floating in through the window, and his head snapped up at the sound.

Flashes began to obscure his vision. He saw the home he shared with Hailey, he saw the smiling and devilish face of George Foyet, he saw the lifeless eyes of the mother of his child, the blood that stained the carpet, the way his fist smashed in Foyet’s cheek, the way Hailey looked when she was gone, the way Jack looked when he asked where she was.

Then he saw you. He saw your smile, the light step of your walk, how delicate your hands looked as you wrote, how you bit your lip if you focused enough, the way your hair caught the light. He saw the sunshine that brought light into his dark, dark life.

The siren chirping once more brought him back to reality.

With his trance broken, he rushed out of the room, steps pounding against the creaky floor and echoing throughout the house. He ran down the stairs, the echos creating a drum roll in his wake as he finally stepped onto the front porch. The ambulance door clicked shut, the EMTs finding their seats before the ambulance sped away, sirens blaring.

He watched you leave until the sun engulfed the ambulance in orange light. His chest was heaving, in and out, mouth hanging open slightly. Suddenly, the kevlar around his torso felt much too tight, his hands finding the velcro and tearing at it. His breathing quickened, the kevlar falling to the ground, but the pressure in his chest still present. Frantically, his finger fumbled with the top button of his shirt, nearly ripping it off in his urgency.

“Aaron?” Dave asked, ascending the porch stairs towards his friend, “Aaron, are you okay?”

“I can’t,” Aaron wheezed, hands pulling down on the collar of his now exposed undershirt, “I can’t breathe-“

“Sit down, sit down,” Dave ushered him to the floor, Aaron practically crumpling into himself, “now, exhale completely.”

Hotch did as he said, shoulders hunching as he let out his breath.

“Now 4 seconds, in through the nose,” Dave followed Aaron’s movements, his hand accentuating his breathing, “hold for 7 seconds,” there was a pause as the two men held their breath, “and now, out for eight.”

Aaron closed his eyes as he exhaled, the tightness of his chest beginning to loosen.

“Keep doing that until you’re ready to talk,” Dave said gently, settling into the floor of the porch while he waited. Hotch completed three more cycles before he opened his eyes. He looked at Dave, eyebrows flicked upward in worry.

“Now,” treading lightly, Dave asked, “what was that about?”

“I don’t know,” Hotch answered quickly, avoiding Dave’s gaze.

“Aaron, the rest of the team may be fooled, but I am not,” Dave began, pointing over his shoulder at the team, “I’ve seen the way you look at them, and the way they look at you.”

That made Hotch’s heart flutter, the thought of you looking at him the same way he looked at you.

“I’m not pushing you to do anything you don’t want to,” Dave defended, “but you already have so many things you keep to yourself, you might have to let this one out.”

Aaron sighed, jaw clenching slightly, “I know.”

“Good,” Dave smiled, patting Hotch on the shoulder before getting up and walking away, preparing to fend off the rest of the team and their questions. Hotch was on his feet just as quickly, rebuttoning his shirt and retrieving his kevlar. His face had returned to the stoic expression everyone was used to, but his pulse was still racing.

***

“The doctor says they will be okay,” Derek told the team, taking a seat beside Spencer, “they’ve been moved to recovery; we can visit once they’re awake.”

Everyone nodded, a gloom hanging densely in the air. The team knew you would be okay, in all reality. Spencer had been sure to spout off a multitude of statistics to prove that a shot in the arm, avoiding the brachial artery, was survivable. But, despite the logical comfort, Hotch could only remember the way you looked, bleeding and incoherent in his arms. The bright, lively red of your blood on his hands was an image that would stain his mind as permanently as the very same blood stained the wooden floor of that house. He figured he could add it to his endless collection of gruesome images that lived in his brain, but he also knew he was a fool if he thought he could compartmentalize that away.

His elbows leaned against his knees, hands coming to a steeple upon his lips. The lines beneath his eyes grew deeper with every passing hour, but he remained in the same position, just as quiet. When it came to his thoughts- in particular, the dark, intrusive thoughts that came to him when the sun went down- he was fairly good at navigating through them, keeping them from degrading his worth as a human and protector. However, as he sat in the uncomfortable, plastic chair of the hospital you were a patient of, he could only think of how many people had been hurt (or worse), because of him. He could only see the way Reid cried as Tobias Hankel tortured him, the way JJ broke when he told her he couldn’t protect her job, the betrayal in Morgan’s eyes when he realized he had buried an empty casket, the beaten and bruised face of Emily after Benjamin Cyrus found out she was FBI.

But then, he saw Hailey. He saw her lying, dead, on the ground of the bedroom they had once shared, the room in which they had decided what to name their child, the room they laughed and cried in, the room they had loved in. She gave him everything he had to live for- his son.

Then he saw you. Dipping in and out of consciousness, calling him nicknames and smiling as you bled onto the floor. The way you giggled and called him ‘Hotchie’ was a happy image spliced into a bigger picture that made bile raise into his throat.

Lastly, he saw George Foyet. At least, what had been left of him. He remembered how he didn’t even feel his knuckles split open as they collided with Foyet’s face. It scared him, truly, how he didn’t stop, even after George was gone. It scared him how he would’ve stayed there, killing a man that was already dead, if Derek hadn’t pulled him away. The broken, mangled face of The Reaper haunted him the most.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him away from his thoughts, his eyes reaching upwards to see who it belonged to.

“You in there, boss?” Emily chuckled, a dazzling smile on her face. 

“Uh, yes,” he nodded once, clearing his throat as he stood. He smoothed down his shirt, suit jacket having been abandoned long ago. In vain, he tried to look like he hadn’t been caught off guard.

“They’re not awake yet, but the nurse said we can go see them, if you’d like.”

He nodded, blinking twice as her words processed in his overworked mind, “Lead the way.”

His strong facade was held together by bubblegum and paperclips when he entered your hospital room. The way you looked so serene- with your eyelashes resting upon your cheeks and your shoulders completely relaxed- it was almost overwhelming. It was only hours earlier that he watched that same face contract in pain, those same eyelashes flutter in an attempt to stay awake.

He stayed by the door as the team found their place around your bed, his hands finding themselves in his pockets and his eyebrows pulling downwards, like they always do. His heart physically ached beneath his chest, its beat no longer the allegro of anxiety, but the slow waltz of failure. He had failed you- failed to protect you, failed to keep you safe. Imagining where that bullet could have landed made it all the worse.

It was bittersweet, really, the way you made him feel. There was a sunshine, a happiness that you infected those around you with. Your warmth was a gift you gave to everyone you met, regardless of who the were or what they’ve done. You would pull the hurt and forgotten from the earth without questioning their origin, your delicate hands caressing them gently with the comfort they’ve never known. You spoke words that covered the listener like summer rain, moved in a way that mimicked the lithe movement of dandelions in the breath of spring. He would surrender himself to you in the way the tides surrender to the moon, and a small part of him knew he already had.

He would give what little of himself remained, if you’d asked. The thunderstorms and lightening he had journeyed through had washed away pieces of him, leaving an otherness that felt all too unfamiliar, that stared right back at him whenever he looked in a mirror. But, regardless of how much he lost of himself, no matter how withered he became, all of it would be yours, if you’d asked. Because, despite the darkness that engulfed his waking moments and controlled the rest, you were always beside him, with a candle to light the way. And for that, he would promise to love you with everything inside him, despite the raindrops that dance on his feet.

If you’d asked.

But, you wouldn’t, he knew, so he wouldn’t fall in love with you. He couldn’t. His heart was tired, weary, and weak. The thought of loving you- in the jumping-from-a-cliff-but-laughing-as-you-fall kind of way, because allowing himself to love you would open a floodgate- and potentially losing you; that was a trauma he couldn’t see himself recovering from. He didn’t have the strength to. So, he would reside in the outskirts of your life, keeping himself close enough to feel the warmth you radiated, but far enough to feel a chill trace his spine.

And that’s exactly what he did. He stayed near the doors of your hospital room, looking silently as the team conversed lightly with your sleeping ears, hoping you would hear their words despite your lack of consciousness. He could hear their gentle whispers, the way they teased each other, the gentle laughs they exchanged. He stood in a room of people that loved and were loved, each of their hearts clean of the bruises that riddled his.

He doesn’t remember when he left, or how he ended up in the George Bush Intercontinental Airport, but he was seated in an airplane seat, staring out to the wisps of clouds and star-spotted sky, mind empty and full all at once.

***

Your eyes slowly pried themselves open, the bright, white light overwhelming your senses momentarily. A groan left your mouth, eyelids dropping once again, your head tilting towards your pillow.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” the voice of Derek Morgan teased, a small smile coming to your lips.

“Am I in heaven?” You croaked out, “I think I hear the voice of an angel.”

“You’re too good to me, (Y/N),” he laughed, his hands gently patting yours. You opened your eyes again with a sigh, looking around the room at your team.

“You had us worried there, kiddo,” JJ chuckled.

“Sorry,” you grimaced, “I didn’t mean to get shot, I swear.”

“Well,” Spencer spoke up from his chair beside the hospital bed, “don’t ever do it again.”

“Pinky promise.”

“Yeah, leave the dying to me,” Emily joked, earning a weak laugh from you.

You looked around at your family, the people you loved most in the life you had, and you hid the disappointment you felt because one was missing.

***

Aaron entered his apartment, shoulders heavy as he set his briefcase by the door. He turned to find Jessica asleep on the couch, hands tucked beside her head. He walked towards her, pulling a blanket from the back of the cushions and draping it over her. She stirred slightly, but settled quickly. 

He moved numbly, putting his gun away securely and removing the belt around his waist. Walking towards the bedroom down the hall, his shoes were kicked off and his dress shirt was discarded, leaving him in slacks, socks, and his white undershirt. 

With a low creak, his eyes peeked through Jack’s barely open door to find him sleeping soundly in his bed, the dark blue comforter pulled up to his chin. Aaron stepped into the room fully, closing the door softly behind him. Carefully, he climbed into the bed beside his son, settling into the pillows. Jack reacted immediately, curling under his dad’s arm. With a small kiss to the little boy’s forehead, Aaron allowed himself to fall asleep, willing away the darkness of the day. Pushing the twisted thoughts away, his mind concentrated on the boy in his arms, and the incredible love he held for him.


End file.
